


Victor(y)

by After_Baker_Street



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Clueless Sherlock, First Date, First Kiss, M/M, Marijuana, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock speaks French a little, Smoking Kink, Sweetness and Fluff, Textile Porn, Unilock, Viclock, Virgin Sherlock, fabric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/After_Baker_Street/pseuds/After_Baker_Street
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sherlock Holmes, at age 18, met Victor Trevor. The rare, the delicious UniVicLock.</p><p>It can be read alone, it's part of the Strange Melodies Universe. This chapter contains illegal drug use, is rated E for upcoming chapters. Because it will be updated infrequently, each section of this series will be able to stand alone as a story in itself.</p><p>Dedicated to the multi-talented, gorgeous Stitchnik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victor(y)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/gifts), [Stitchnik](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Stitchnik).



 

University. A terrifying time. Father dying sent a thunderclap through reality. Deafening. My own suffering was already tearing at me; misery playing through my bones day and night. Couldn’t regain my balance. Headaches near daily, so much pain I’d hide my eyes away beneath bedclothes, pillows, in darkness.

Everywhere the stupid blank faces of people without any hint of the fevered reckoning going on behind my eyes. My days were crimson and glistening dark, brutal chiaroscuro. Heart aflame like Il Sacro Cuore.

Threw myself into my studies. Entomology, chemistry, eight papers published in ten months. Psycholinguistics, neuroanatomy, late night arguments with lecturers. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. I stayed awake at night, London peering back at me when I looked it over. (Couldn’t see enough, couldn’t be enough.)

World went hazy and Mycroft disappeared into work. I hated everyone I knew (myself most of all).

Late, in the textiles lab. Easier without all those students around.

Dizzy with my thoughts, finishing research on pollen found in the folds of a silk gown reportedly worn by [some noblewoman, useless: deleted it ages ago]. Mysteries in moire! Touching it, I could have tasted the craftsman who did the calendering. Eyes dancing over watered silk searching out those tiny treasures.

Already sorted that it couldn’t have belonged to the woman, it’s not just that the pollen’s all wrong, there’s stone dust in a seam. Italian, and our nameless noblewoman never went to Italy. But that silk. Ivory and ecru, a flat iridescence like water, like oil. My hands, bare on it. Against the rules. Don’t care.

The space is open and empty, so every sound carries, reaches past my guard.

“Can’t believe they’d even let you touch that. Most students are stuck with cataloguing household linens and more modern stuff. Trousers in polyester.”

(Nod.) “Yes, but I’m not like most students.” Voice cold, dismiss another excitable onlooker.

“Aren’t you meant to be wearing gloves?” voice like careless honey. Not dismissible at all. Spare him a glance, against my will.

Oh no.

(Life is two-dimensional, there is no room, no third dimension for my heart to beat. It contracts painfully. The surprise of him.)

Can’t say anything. Nothing to say. Want to hide.

Clear my throat.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s one of those...rules.” Keep my eyes on the gown, on the dress form. Feet moving behind me. Beside me. The spark of galbanum low in my throat, green and wild. Petitgrain. Burst of cedar, my mouth waters. Want to look again, barely caught the shape of his face. Want to memorise it.

His hand on my shoulder. I’m kneeling. Want to recoil. Haven’t been touched in so long (no one would dare) it’s almost painful. My eyes dart towards him, fine wool trousers (bespoke, charcoal on black herringbone), finely crafted shoes (Italian, leather soles repaired twice, well-loved).

He’s touching it: my fabric, the dress! Long, slim fingers on the lace.

“Like a hidden scar, like the work of a very skilled plastic surgeon.” He says, almost absently. Look up. At his face. Shock of curls (colour undefinable, can’t be categorised, but I pick out blonde, ginger, mahogany).

“What?” Feign irritation, disappointed/relieved when it comes out softer than I’d intended.

“Look,” he motions me closer. I stand, peer at the bone-coloured lace, “it’s been repaired, but the tatting’s so fine, it’s almost impossible to tell.”

“Of course!” (I missed it! How?) Now that his finger trailed along the repaired rent in the lace, it was impossible to ignore. But I’d missed it! And he saw it at a glance.

Dumbstruck (rare for me, certainly). Look at him.

“Hi, I’m -”

Victor. Easy smile and bright, laughing eyes. Victor. Open hand extended (I shake it, I’m not sure what else to do). Kind, lean face framed by the stiff eyelet collar (fixed with a sliver of a gold pin that glitters in the artificial light) of a crisp (even though it’s nearly 10pm) forest green, fine cotton shirt. Oh, Victor.

“It’s too late for work, want to go out for a drink?” Never looking away.

“I don’t go out for drinks.” His laugh, skittering along the walls of the empty lab. His animated face is so eminently watchable.

“You must. What else do you do when you’re out with friends?”

“I don’t have friends.” Maybe he’ll go, leave me if I’m cold enough. They usually do. Instead he starts to laugh, it bubbles up out of him, like he can’t stop himself. But he’s not laughing at me, it’s as though I’ve told the cleverest joke he’s ever heard.

“Well, now you’ve got one.”

*

He takes my arm, as we’re walking, and my fingers linger on his velvet sports jacket. An affectation. Everything about him seems like an affectation. It’s only later that I realise nothing about him is an affectation. Everything is genuine.

Stumbling over words that seem hidden from me.

“I - I really don’t go out. To pubs, I mean.” Look down, pretend to be careful not to stumble.

He laughs again, is everything I say hilarious? I don’t think so. Reconsider: do my words have hidden meaning? (Double entendre? Subtlety is not really my area.)

I go on, “Too...loud. Too...everything.” Mind’s reeling. Can’t sort out Victor at all. Wealthy? Posh clothes, but they’re all strange somehow, flash of gold at his wrist. No car. We’re walking.

“We’ll go back to my place, then. Plenty to drink there.” Casual. Wait. Am I being propositioned? Victor: probably gay. Or extremely stylish. Not sure which is which.

Not sure how to respond. It isn’t a question. Realise my arm is in his, he’s been touching me this whole time and I haven’t thought anything of it. I like it. He’s warm.

*

Flat should be terrible, too many colours, everything’s soft, nothing’s organised and it’s lovely. He’s talking, I should be listening. Can’t. Too much to look at first. Armchair (upholstered in brocade) draped with threadbare batik. Leather sofa (burnt umber, looking at it I can almost smell cinnamon) half covered in chenille. There are swathes of fabric everywhere, dripping off every surface. Heart is beating too fast, respiration rises. Dig my fingers into a length of dupion silk, can’t stop. It’s like Victor, like this flat, it seems every irregularity is intentional, and perfect. Two things that should never be together (different species of silkworms) create something strange, nearly impossible, better by far than what they’d create separately.

And then he’s there, hand on my elbow. Gentle. Reminding me he’s still there. I’m not lost. Still close to home, still in London. At Victor’s flat.

“Hiya.” His voice is a whisper, it barely touches me. Look up, catch his eye. Look away.

“D’you like that?” He gestures, minutely, to my knuckles going white. Swallow hard. This isn’t how I’m meant to act, meeting a stranger. Must remember: be polite (stop glancing up at his face, delphinium eyes).

“Yes.” Catches in my mouth, comes out strangled. Clear my throat. “Most people are unaware that bees also produce silk.”

“They do? That’s terrific.” I’ve given him a gift. “I never knew.”

“Midges as well.”

“Fantastic. Just imagine, I could be wearing a tie made of midge silk.” He leans against a treadle (Chadwick & Jones) sewing machine, it’s ancient. Cast iron and heavy. There are four of them, different makes and ages, against this wall. It’s a display, a collection. Of sewing machines. Yes, I like Victor very much.

“Bees - their silk is used to build their cells, for the pupae...” Victor’s smiling brightly, (I smell citrus, taste white pepper) he answers softly, as though gentling a wild animal (am I wild?).

“I’ve always dreamt of wearing something made of spider silk. Wouldn’t it feel...just,” He’s searching for a word, hand trailing over his jaw and finally sliding a finger along his bottom lip as he speaks (thoughtful). His eyes close in ecstasy, as his voice thrums low, “spectacular?”

Am breathing too hard; the light in here is strange, lamps draped with crimson scarves, everything is softened and ruby-glazed. Somehow Victor’s voice reverberates in my chest. I want to touch him, I feel compelled.

He turns on his heel, back to the small kitchen.

“How ‘bout that drink?” he calls, over his shoulder. I follow in his wake.

There’s a glistening collection of bottles on a much-abused butcher block serving as a drinks cabinet.

“I could mix us up something, but I thought this might be nicer,” he says, grabbing a bottle of wine, rummaging enthusiastically through a drawer (like it’s a game, like a corkscrew is being scampish and hiding from him).

“Yes...” I respond, feeling awkward, out of place. It is a feeling that never quite leaves me, it’s made a home somewhere in my gut. Now it’s flailing about painfully.

Everything about him is effortless and graceful. (I don’t know where to stand, what to look at.)

*

A glass of wine, tastes like the ocean. Victor’s talking, hands moving through the air. I forget to listen, watch his hands sail and dive like pale birds, oiseaux qui perchent jamais: toujours dansant, toujours en vol.

A clicking noise, he glances down. Oh, it’s me. Fidgeting. Nails clacking against my glass.

“I’m sorry!” I’m rewarded with another of his smiles, they flash over his face in an instant. Wide, and nearing impish. Glittering. He laughs at me. He laughs so easily, all the time. Mirth bounding out of him. He’s taken off his jacket, unbuttoned his collar and cuffs. I want fold myself down inside my jumper (my clothes are an embarrassment, next to Victor, jumper’s unraveling in more places than is really decent, trousers too short and nearly worn through at the knee). When he looks at me, I shake my fringe over my eyes, which makes him laugh all the more.

It’s getting late. We’ve been talking for hours. Talking to Victor’s easy, I even feel my nerves begin to settle. But maybe I should go? He offers me another glass of wine, it smells of leaves and earth. I take it. Victor’s clever, wonderfully, refreshingly clever. (Don’t know that I’ve ever talked so easily, or so much. No one would ever have listened. Went on for twenty minutes, (maybe twenty five) about the history of the crossbow. His eyes stay on me, he never grows bored, instead is bursting to share the story of the Pazyryk carpet.)

We talk of everything. He’s used to telling stories, people want to listen to him speak.

As he’s talking, he brings out a small box from the battered but fine oak table near the sofa.

“Do you smoke?” he asks.

“Uh, yes, I should give it up?” Then I realise my mistake. How foolish of me (Victor does something to me, all my deductions unwind around him, I’m lost, distracted by the tiniest expressions on his face). Of course he didn’t mean smoking cigarettes. Marijuana. Drugs: a dangerous temptation for me. Smoking’s nearing compulsive behavior. Fingers yellowed from nicotine.

Practised. He lights a joint, wrapped in frail paper. I’m caught. Don’t know how to respond. The draw of his breath seems endless, his chest expands as he takes in that woody burning stuff. I begin to panic. Not sure how to respond. He will offer it to me, and I’ll take it and won’t know what to do. He holds the smoke for what seems like ages, and I know he knows I’m staring at him. He glances to the side, towards me. Turns his head from me, breathing out a lungful of smoke (a joyful dragon). Laughs as he exhales, catching my expression (frozen with fear, indecision).

“It’s ok,” his voice breaking on a giggle. Dismissive, generous. “You don’t have to.” He gives me a lazy wink, and with a terrible American accent stage-whispers, “Say no to drugs.”

“No, no. It’s not that. I’ve just. This isn’t.” (Why am I speaking so quickly? Where have the ends of all my sentences gone?) “I want to,” I finally spit out, “But never have done.”

A wicked arch of his eyebrow. “Want to try?”

“Come here.” He says, eyes half-lidded and intimate. I nod. Instead of handing me the burning joint, he brings it to his mouth again, (I feel my eyes growing wide). When he’s finished, he holds it away, and turns toward me.

A tiny motion of his hand, a beckoning. I lean towards him, reaching for his hand. Instead, he turns his face towards mine, and I gasp in surprise. His lips meet mine, softly pressing into my open mouth. “Breathe.” he whispers on the exhale. I breathe in as he breathes out, smoke pouring between us. (Smoke tastes of crushed pine needles and the ashes of clover, he tastes of the first day of school.)

I can hardly take a deep breath, my heart starts pounding in my chest. His eyes are closed, this is like a kiss. Is this a kiss? He’s barely making contact with my mouth as I take great gulps of air and heady smoke. He’s breathing in now, as I breathe out, in a pant. He’s ready to pull away, he will in a second. As he begins to break away, I lean forward, into him. I want more of his mouth against mine.

He tips his chin up, just barely, then his lips meet mine, this time connecting with intention. I’m not sure what to do next. Wetness, a bit of suction. The flailing thing in my gut turns to flame, burns low. His tongue is slipping between my lips, just a teasing flick and he’s gone. The kiss lasted seconds, maybe. (I think he might be able to hear my heart pounding.) He leans back, eyes nearly closed.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” it sounds like a satisfied purr.

He’s stretched out, his head on the arm of the sofa, framed in emerald and burgundy, the dark green of his unbuttoned collar, then the chenille behind. I’m sitting, taking up the least space possible, and he’s sprawled so far that his knees are still against my thigh. Everything about him, everything about this flat, begs to be touched. I see my hand reaching for him before I realise it’s moving. I reach for the cuff pushed up to his elbow. The fabric is slick and soft beneath my fingers.

He’s smiling again, reaching for me. Long fingers run along my scalp as he pushes unruly curls back from my face, tucks the longest ones behind my ear. He leaves his hand on me, fingers wrapped around to the back of my neck.

“You shouldn’t hide your face like that.” He’s whispering, head tilted and looking into my eyes.

“I’m not hiding, it’s just, it’s too much sometimes.” And now he’ll know what I freak I am. He’ll ask and then he’ll know how I’m not like everyone else. But the wine and the weed have loosened my tongue. That, and his kiss. (Regret starts to curdle that warm, good feeling in my belly.)

His eyebrows draw together in concern. “Is it too much now?” He pulls his hand away, curious, careful.

“No, no.” Smile to reassure him, seems natural. “Now it’s perfect. Just perfect. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.”

I wanted to make it better, easier. Instead his face crumples a bit, and he mouths silently ‘no.’ He shakes his head, like I’ve said something tragic. “You can’t remember the last time you laughed?” This has gone all wrong. I want to kiss him again. He looks sad and I don’t want that, I only meant to tell him how nice it all is.

“No, I can remember, but...it has been a long time.” I want to stop being genuine, I want to stop showing so much. I can’t. He does that to me.

“I know what that’s like,” he says, melancholy colouring his tone, hands wandering back upwards along my arm, stroking me gently. Then his lip curls in a grin and he says “How long has it been since you’ve been kissed?”

Oh. Right.

“Since ever? Since never?” My whole life? For some reason the sound of my own voice is slightly funny and I can’t help but laugh a little, though it’s painful to admit the truth. My first kiss, with Victor.

He doesn’t say anything cruel, doesn’t make a joke (it’s a surprise even though we’ve spent the entire evening together, and his wit, though sharp, is never cutting). “Your first kiss?” he says in a hushed tone, with something near reverence. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen...” I want to disappear. “In two months.” A spark of indignation. What does it matter how old I am? “How old are you?” Sound accusatory. Don’t mean to.

“Twenty, why?” He offers everything up without defense, without guile. This isn’t a world I know how to navigate. I say nothing.

And easy as anything, he changes the subject. “You must be exhausted. I’m having such a nice time with you I don’t want it to end, though. Cruel of me to keep you so late.”

We’ve shuffled back to safer territory, or rather, he’s lead me there.

“It’s alright, my place isn’t far -”

“You could stay, if you wanted.” He talks over me, and I find myself silent instead of insistent. “Spend the night.”

“Sure? I could kip here. On the sofa?” Why is everything a question? I’m used to knowing my mind, arguing my side.

“Too small, you’re too tall. You can sleep in bed with me. There’s plenty of room. And I promise not to seduce you.”

But why not?

*

It seems fine, until it isn’t. Until it’s painfully awkward. He shows me to his room, then he moves around the flat, turning off lights and locking the door. I can’t believe I’ve agreed to spend the night with a man I just met. (Mycroft will know I haven’t gone home all night, but it’s not like I never worked through the night before.)

The bedroom is like the rest of the flat, polished wood floors with an amber patina, high ceilings. A wingback chair upholstered in faded velour. The lighting is soft and tinted yellow, spilling on stacks of books and folded cloth. The bed is like most of his furniture, draped with luxurious fabrics.

I realise I’m afraid. To be accurate: terrified.

Sit on the bed, feet tucked beneath me. Feel terribly small, which is a surprise considering I’m already at what will be my full height. Run my fingers over and over the quilt, a collection of strange and compelling fabrics, damasks with bizarre prints, a piece of what looks like the silk paisley lining of a fine morning jacket, bits of dyed lace, sheer slips of organdie. It’s meant to be touched. It’s made to be touched.

When he walks in, he’s unbuttoning that beautiful shirt to the waist, a slice of skin visible. (His chest is dusted lightly with hair, gingery brown, but is mostly bare.)

“Need anything before bed? You can ask for anything.” He calls over his shoulder as he faces away, into a battered wardrobe. He starts to pull his shirt off and his trim shoulders are exposed. Bare arms. The architecture of his back. I realise I’m staring as the muscles in his shoulders and neck work (trapezius and SCM dancing), he brings out pajamas. My mouth might be open. I’ve seen plenty of boys in all states of undress, but they’re nothing like Victor.

“Turn around.” he laughs, pointing me away. (Why? I like looking. It’s not as if I haven’t seen a naked man before.) I comply, turning away just enough that I could lean just a little and see him undress. I don’t. But I could.

He turns out the overhead light, so that the only light is a tiny lamp on his bedside table. He’s used to reading in bed. He flips back the corner of the cover, and sits indian-style, the cover over his knees. I look back at him. He’s forgone the top, is bare-chested in only the drawstring pajama bottoms. His skin is a pale creamy gold in the lamplight.

“It’s all right, you know. It’s not like you can sleep in your trousers and belt.” I can, and have. But I stand, anyway. Not sure where to look again, it’s not as though I undress for bed with others very often. Take off my belt, wind it around itself. Set it on the bedside table. Unbutton my trousers and decide quickly is the best way, least awkward. Slide them off and slip under the cover so that I’m sitting beside him. Wriggle my jumper off, all while he’s watching. Flustered as the collar catches on my chin and pops off. Not exactly graceful. Certainly not fluid and beautiful like Victor. I want to disappear.

“There. That’s nice, isn’t it?” Almost exactly what he said after we kissed. Throat goes dry and my penis decides to make itself known, gives a hopeful twitch (ridiculous thing). Lick my lips as though I could still taste him on me.

I nod and he switches off the light. The last thing I see before it clicks off is the long line of his arm, his lean shoulder. He settles down in bed, speaking softly.

“Sherlock. You have a very lovely and unusual name.” I feel exposed, huddled beneath the quilt, in just pants and a vest. Victor’s beside me, we’re not touching but he’s radiating warmth. His scent is delicious, this close.

“My life is very unusual. Um. Thank you.” My eyes are adjusting to the darkness, I can now make out his profile, turned three-quarters towards me. His fine, sharp nose. His strong jaw and chin. I think of lemongrass, sweet and bright.

I think I’d like to kiss him again. I’m shaking and I don’t know why. I hope he can’t tell. I am tired, a few drinks and my guard lowers, it’s harder to ignore the demands of my traitorous body. I feel swallowed in this sea of linen, recognise it’s barely scented of lavender. I’m thinking everything and nothing, wheels of worry and concern starting to burn a hole in my mind.

He makes a quiet noise of satisfaction, rustling in the sheets beside me. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” (When he says my name it sounds like a story and I must know how it ends.)

“Goodnight, Victor.” I say, relaxing a bit and turning towards him.

We’re silent a few moments, but I can see his eyes are still open. I want to stop watching him but I can’t. He’s the most compelling thing I’ve ever seen. I want to turn off my mind, to sleep here, next to him. But I can’t. I hear the nearly silent hiss of skin against linen, and then I feel his hand on my arm, moving to my side.

“Is this ok?” he asks, barely audible except that his lips are inches from my ears. I nod, maybe overly vigorous, because I do not trust myself to speak.

His fingers are warm and sure. He shifts, turns on his side, and settles closer to me. His arm wraps around me. Another small sound, low from the back of his throat (it cannot be mistaken for anything but pleasure). I feel nothing but his hand on me, and then the press of him, gently along my side, from head to toe, as he rests his forehead on my shoulder. My screaming mind and heart are strangely quiet. All I think is Victor, Victor, Victor.

I’m a freak, and I know it. This will not last. This is a dream, and a particularly dangerous one. I live a life of distance. It’s for the best. It’s the price I pay for keeping my focus on my work. But for now, the silence that washes over me, the warmth radiating from Victor, it’s enough (it’s perfect).

He kisses my shoulder, through my ratty t-shirt and says goodnight again. I feel frozen, incapable. But another part of me feels so drawn to him. I face him in bed, put my own arm at his waist so that we’re mirror images of each other. The symmetry is immensely pleasing. It must be to him too, because he moves only a little to bring his face near to mine.

When he’s so close that I can feel his breath whisper against me, he says “Can I kiss you?”

So that there is no confusion, I answer him aloud. “Please.” My voice is low and hungry, even in my own ears. It’s dark, and he’s slightly off the mark. Giggling, he kisses my cheek, then the side of my mouth. Then his lips find mine and I can’t remember ever not wanting to kiss Victor, not wanting to be closer to him. It’s brief, the sweet press of his lips against mine, then again.

I feel like crying, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s relief. He dips down to bury his face in my neck, kissing there, little fleeting kisses that make me want to cry out. One long, slim leg rubs against mine. He squeezes me close, and I can’t help but squeeze back. My hand against him feels strangely heart-wrenching. His skin is like nothing that I have words for, like velvet or satin; I feel the thrum of his heart beating beneath my fingers.

His breath over my neck feels like a caress, I fall asleep as it strokes me gently.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Stitchnik for fabricpick, and BettySwallocks for britpick! That being said, all mistakes are mine.


End file.
